


Tainted

by crisarya



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Established Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Poor Will, Revelations, Will Finds Out, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crisarya/pseuds/crisarya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Will first says 'I love you' is the same day he finds out what Hannibal is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tainted

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to de-anon after seeing all of the amazing responses on the kink meme. A special shout out to Alucard1771 who translated this fic into Chinese!
> 
> This is not beta-read, so all mistakes are my own. If you have any constructive criticism or you're interested in being my beta, please drop me a line! I'm always happy to hear from you.

Will ran a careful hand along the curve of Hannibal's waist, trailing his fingertips over the pale skin with a reverence reserved for the scarce minutes preceding dawn. It was nearly five, the usual time the two woke up, but Will was reluctant to rouse his partner just yet. Hannibal slept on his side, sheets pooled around his waist, breath steady and brow smoothed; the antithesis to Will. If left on his own, Will would cocoon himself in three layers of blankets, sweat dampening his hair as he battled the darkest corners of his dreamscape.

But with Hannibal, he found a modicum of peace. Last night he had managed four hours of uninterrupted sleep, a novelty he was rarely afforded.

He shifted closer so that their breath mingled together in the morning chill and placed his hand on the strong, aristocratic jaw of his partner, letting his thumb play along the stubbled chin. Hannibal's lips pursed at the touch. 

Will enjoyed studying his boyfriend, partner, whatever-they-were in this pseudo darkness, his eyes so used to dissecting the most horrific acts known to humanity. Yet in Hannibal all Will saw, all he could see, was beauty. It was a hard kind of beauty in Hannibal, a rare kind of beauty, and one that he cherished as a child might cherish a butterfly in a mason jar, strong and stunning and captured only for a little while.

"I love you," Will said.

For Will, so many things in his mind were illusory, conjured up as a torture to him, that the only way of ensuring his own sanity was to create some barrier, some conscious choice that ensured that he knew where the world ended and his own imagination began. Hannibal had advised him that saying something aloud, even only to himself, might create that boundary. For weeks now he had made Will practice, talking through his cases or his students’ assignments with him, establishing the difference between reality and fantasy.

So, in this moment, Will had to say it. He had to tell Hannibal that he loved him. It wasn’t real until he said it. And this secret, this love Will held for Hannibal, had to be real.

Secrets had the unfortunate habit of outing themselves at the most inopportune of times. But if he could voice it now, soft and private, still so close to his heart, maybe this one could wait just a bit longer to be revealed under the harsh light of day.

"I love you, Hannibal Lecter."

The only answer to his whispered admission was a whimper from one of the dogs lying at the foot of the bed. 

Content, Will closed his eyes and waited for the alarm to sound.

***

"I'm home," Will called, slipping his shoes off at the door. They alternated sleeping arrangements, spending half their time in Will's home and the other half in Hannibal's apartment. 

Hannibal didn't like the dogs underfoot and refused to be parted from his world class kitchen for more than twenty-four hours. Will didn't mind. Sometimes they needed their space, both of them. And Will couldn’t help but to revel in the decadent, multi-course meals Hannibal offered up as consolation whenever they stayed the night in the apartment.

Padding through the living room, Will dropped his beloved leather satchel, filled with notes on his newest case, next to the couch. He had missed lunch, spending the time grading papers and reviewing said file, so he felt a little kitchen raiding was in order. The newest victim was a young woman, fresh out of college. She had been found floating, bloated and nearly unrecognizable, in the Potomac River three days prior, sans kidneys, liver and heart. The killer was growing bolder, the evolution from copycat to autonomous killer now complete.

Will pulled open the stainless steel refrigerator door with a satisfying hum, glancing over the contents. There was a plastic container of kidney stew tucked into the corner, Hannibal’s latest foray into preparing offal. Will had particularly liked this recipe, the tender, salty meat complimented by soft carrots and a thick brown broth. Will emptied the small container into a pot, set in on the stove and flipped on the burner.

This man, for this killer was most certainly a man, mid-40’s, Caucasian, was experienced. He had been killing for years, perhaps since childhood. The copy-cat killer had been a façade, a calculated effort to keep his identity a secret. The restraint needed to imitate other killers so thoroughly was remarkable, but it was the surgical nature of the organ removals that exposed him. They suggested a professional distance, not unlike a butcher. Most serial killers wanted to become closer to their victims, expressing their repressed rage or twisted love in some type of personal mutilation. 

This man valued the meat, not the victims.

Will absentmindedly stirred his stew, steam beginning to curl into the air.

The killer would need extensive medical training, although he wouldn’t be working in a profession directly linked to medical care, such as a surgeon or general practitioner. It would be too easy and far too tempting. This man was intelligent, well-trained, and completely in control of his bloodlust.

At least it had seemed so until a month previous. 

The killer had stepped up his timeline, taking a victim nearly every week, a huge jump from the erratic but exploitative nature displayed before. There must have been a trigger of some sort. Often time killers would be spurred on by a stressor, leading them to excessive, sloppy attacks. But this man, this cannibal, had maintained his methods, his clinical abduction, removal, and disposal. He had simply stepped up his timeline. Why?  
Will was dipping a spoon into the stew when the locks at the front door rattled. Hannibal must be back.

As if in answer, a hand snaked its way around Will’s hips and pulled him back into a lithe, solid body.

“Hungry?” Hannibal asked. His voice, deep and reassuring, caused a shiver to race down Will’s spine.

“Missed lunch.”

“Ah. Well, don’t fill up on leftovers. I have a rather beautiful piece of liver I plan to cook up for us tonight.”

Hannibal nipped playfully at Will’s neck, mouthing his way up his throat until his breath ghosted along the curve of Will’s ear.

“And, just in case you were curious, I love you too,” Hannibal murmured, arms tightening around his smaller partner for just a moment before he disappeared towards the bedroom. Will shuddered, only partly in response to the sudden withdrawal of heat from his back.

Hannibal had heard him, there in the darkness. He had heard him and responded in kind. Oh god.

He had to focus. Will could already feel a panic attack nipping at the edges of his mind. Too much, this was too much. He had to think of something else, anything else.

The killer, the cannibal. He had changed, morphed, adapted. His timeline was different for a reason. He needed more meat.

Perhaps he was unsatisfied with only taking one organ at a time? No. He had been so careful until now.

Maybe he disliked his work going unacknowledged, falsely assigned to others? No. That couldn’t be it either. He had wanted the FBI to believe he was a copycat, an admirer. To not look deeper into who was the true murderer.

What if he was feeding someone other than himself? Someone he interacted with on a regular basis - a child who he had gained custody of, a girlfriend, or a partne- 

Will wanted to throw up.

A man, Caucasian, intelligent, mid-40’s, with extensive medical training but not directly tied to traditional medical professions, and a partner who had moved in a month ago. A partner he fed nearly every day. A partner whom he loved.

The offal. It was the offal. And the protein scramble and the section of perfectly carved loin and - 

“Will? Are you alright?” 

Hannibal hadn’t even hidden it. He had told Will what he was eating, feeding him slices of heart drenched in a blood red sauce with a side of green beans. That had been Sunday night.

This time he did vomit, painting the cool blue tile under him with the remains of his lunch.

Will sank to the floor, ignoring the mess he had just made, afraid his knees may give out before he could find some sort of solid ground again. The stew began to boil over above him, a mocking hiss slicing through the thick air. With a snap, Hannibal turned it off, shoving the pot into the sink.

He crouched next to him, a hand carding through the damp, unruly curls of his partner, but Will refused to look up. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he realized that he couldn’t bear to look at the man he loved. A man he had given more to than any other. A murderer. 

A sharp tug at Will’s hair forced his head up.

“You have to talk to me, Will. What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

The words made Will flinch.

“How many?” Will asked.

Hannibal didn’t move, still staring into Will’s flushed face, his own unreadable.

“How many what, love?” His voice was steady, smooth, a brief caress against the air.

“How many people have I eaten? Have you fed me?”

Hannibal didn’t flinch, but there was a darkening, a hardening in his face. He stood, hand sliding from Will’s hair, and straightened his vest with a tug, smoothing his tie underneath with a slide of his palm.

“I believe, as of this afternoon, the number would be thirteen.”

A low keening escaped Will’s lips, unbidden. He curled into himself, hands clutching at the sharp pain in his chest. It was as if he could feel his own heart breaking.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Doing what, Will? Killing? You have to say it. You have to say it or it isn’t real.”

He could hear the smirk in Hannibal’s voice, that slight twist of his mouth that Will had always treasured. It was disgusting now, tainted.

“Yes. The killing. How long?”

“I was seventeen. Although that was not my first taste of human flesh.” At this, Hannibal’s voice took on a tone of fond remembrance. “No, I was eleven when the men who invaded my home fed me the meat they had carved from my sister’s writhing body. It was still warm.”

Will jerked away as if slapped. How had he not seen? How had he not known?

“But really, my dear Will, that’s not the question you should be asking.”

The slick sound of a knife being pulled from the knife block was unmistakable. Will could barely hear it over the pounding in his ears.

“No, Will. You should be asking what part of you I shall consume next. After all, I already have your heart.”


End file.
